Hiraeth
by kalonrain
Summary: A series of Sherlolly one-shots: some fluffy, some angsty, really anything. [latest chapter: Murder and Other Rom-Com Things]
1. Chapter 1

**Thanks to the guest who told me about upload problems!**

Molly Hooper sat on her couch with a pint of ice cream when she heard a rather confident knock.

She froze, her hand holding the remote to her telly hovering in the air.

Her dodgy flat in Camden didn't get many visitors, save for the routine 1 o'clock completely pissed men knocking drunkenly on her door, and her 89 year-old neighbor who was a dear but always forgets her keys.

Molly pushed aside her blanket but retained her hold on the remote, posed into the air to launch at her potential attacker. Perhaps she was being a little paranoid, but Molly's nerves had taken a bit of a hit that day.

Not two hours from her scheduled bachelorette party, Molly had called her fiance in tears, telling him she didn't think she could go through with their wedding. Tom had taken it rather poorly, calling her some vulgar words before hanging up abruptly. Now, wallowing in her grief, Molly had turned to ice cream and Doctor Who.

That is, until she was interrupted.

The knock came again.

Molly nearly shrieked, and she fumbled with her phone until she could clumsily type out her friend's number.

"Meena?" she whispered.

" _Oh god, Molls? You okay?_ " Molly could hear her friend juggling her phone frantically. " _Listen, don't - don't worry about a thing, alright? - I told everyone the party was cancelled - not that, shite, you'd want a reminder - he was a tosser though, really, never liked him - anyway the point is you just relax, I think you made the right decision, honest -_ "

"Meena, there's someone at my door," she breathed. "They're not leaving, they just keeping knocking - Meena?"

" _Shite._ " Meena was silent for a moment. " _Well...shite._ "

Molly's eyes narrowed a bit as she waited for her friend to say something.

" _Look, Molls -_ ," she began. " _I know you said you absolutely did not want one, but I just thought you needed to loosen up a bit, especially at your hen, looking back on it it might have been a bit of bad idea - but to be honest I was a little drunk when I made the call - but I did my research! - he's apparently top-notch, real fit too, high quality -_ "

"Meena Adney," Molly began dangerously. " _Did you get me a prostitute?_ "

" _He's real high-end, Molls! Bloody fit too, his name...his name - shite, I've got it somewhere -_ ," she heard Meena fumbling around with her phone. " _Sher - she...Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes - Christ, what sort of name is that - anyway, he's no joke, 'real good' the reviews said - or more like 'un-fucking-believable' -_ "

A knock, more impatient this time.

"I'll just go tell him he's not longer needed, shall I?" Molly whispered into the phone.

Meena groaned. " _Fine, but I did pay a good bit for him, the least you could do is try and enjoy yourself a bit -_ "

Molly hung up.

She placed the remote gingerly on her cheap thrift-store table before self consciously tugging on her striped sweater, attempting to smooth out some of the stubborn wrinkles. She felt a little silly as she attempted to comb a little through her hair, before giving up and wrapping it into a messy bun.

Hesitating slightly, she reached out and wrenched open her door.

And maybe her jaw dropped a little.

A man stood with his hand outstretched to knock, a half-smirk forming on his face as he took in her appearance. She winces a little, wishing she had remembered about her red eyes and probably miserable looking makeup. His own appearance was, of course, impeccable. He had dark curls against perfect pale skin - unbelievable cheekbones casting shadows across his face.

'Bloody fit' indeed, Molly thought.

The man seemed made of contrasts, a dark suit against a plain white crisp dress shirt. He looked so impossibly out of place in her shabby hallway that she nearly laughed. He was, without a doubt, the most un-fucking-believably gorgeous man she had ever seen.

She stood there for a moment, lips parted a little, taking in the sight of this greek god standing before her.

He arched a dark eyebrow. "The bride-to-be, I presume?"

"Ex," she said quickly, then flushed. "He's not my fiancé anymore."

He didn't miss a beat. "A shame." For a moment his eyes raked over her, and she could feel him storing and cataloguing and analyzing informations about her. She shifted uncomfortably. "Or perhaps not."

They stood there for a silent second, before he broke the silence.

"I suppose the hen night has been cancelled then?" His voice was cool, detached - but his eyes were a little gentler this time. "And so are my...services?" His eyes glinted wickedly as he flicked out his tongue to run over his teeth - Molly's knees went weak.

"I...yes, I guess so," she stuttered a little.

He turned to leave.

"Wait!" she almost desperately cried. He turned lightly on his heels, facing her with an amused expression. "That is...unless you…" she swallowed nervously. "I don't suppose you'd...like to come in? For a night in?"

"A night in?" he mused softly. He regarded her for a moment, eyes narrowed slightly with soft curiosity. "I suppose it couldn't hurt."


	2. Chapter 2

**Enjoy this! I had a lot of fun writing it, actually.**

Molly Hooper had never been one for parties. In fact, she'd always had a dislike for them - sitting home reading or studying had been the more preferable option.

But fuck it, she was in her first year of university, it was Freshers' Week, and new acquaintance and dorm mate Meena Adney had convinced her to come to a house party. _It'll be bloody fantastic,_ she'd begged, _please come._

And surprisingly, she hadn't been wrong. Molly _was_ having a good time.

She'd gotten all dressed up too - well, more than she usually does. Meena, lucky for her, has impeccable fashion taste, and had insisted on dressing Molly for "the best fucking night of our lives".

When she'd first arrived, she'd felt out of place, but the cup of cheap beer shoved into her hand had quickly solved that.

Currently, she was dancing to a crappy song surrounded by university boys ogling at her breasts. She cared less than usual however, because tonight, Molly Hooper was having fun.

"Based on your size, height, weight, and current condition, I'd say you're fast approaching your drinking limit," a deep voice behind Molly spoke out.

Molly twirled around lightly on her heels. She let her eyes travel around his form - fit, amazingly fit, actually - before settling on a playful grin.

He was out of place. Out of place in the sense that he was put together, not drinking, and _fucking_ gorgeous.

You didn't see _those_ cheekbones everyday. Paired with his dark curls, blue-green-brown eyes, and he looked positively sinful.

"And who are you?" she asked archly. Her drink sloshed with her twirl, nearly spilling over the edge.

His own eyes wander over her body, coming up to settle on her face. Molly nearly lost her breath. "A concerned citizen," he replied.

"Ah," she concedes in mock-seriousness, throwing a deep nod his way. "So, good Samaritan, how may I help you?"

The stranger's eyes follow her light movements amusedly. Her heartbeat accelerates in her chest, thumping along to the overly chipper pop song. _Tachycardia_ , she notes to herself faintly.

"John Watson. I don't suppose you know him?"

Her eyebrows lifts a little, enough to turn her lips up into a smile. " _So_ , this is Sherlock Holmes. After the stories I've heard though, I suppose you aren't quite the redeemer you say." Again she lets her eyes drift over his form. "More of a Lucifer."

He smirks, wickedness gleamed in his eyes. "Lucifer was an angel once, wasn't he?"

Molly laughs out loud, a deep genuine laugh made easy by the alcohol in her cup. She lifts it to her lips, musing quietly, "I suppose he was."


	3. Chapter 3

**Mirror!verse fic, based off of Lies by Marina and the Diamonds.**

He only ever comes to her in the night.

He stands in the doorway, just a shadow, and she can feels her body tense with familiar anticipation.

He slips her covers aside and she feels the tears start to gather in the corner of her eyes.

He's rough, firm with her, taking her like she is just an object in his hands. He doesn't make a sound, and neither does she. They are quiet in crushing darkness.

And while she's laying there and he's using her she'll remember what he's done to her, beat her, bruised her, hurt her.

She can't help but flinch when he runs his hands down her body.

The hands that have hit, burned, slashed, murdered.

Sometimes she'll whisper out into the dark, into his ear, against his mouth _please don't_ , and he won't reply. He never lifts his eyes from her body, but she keeps her eyes fixed on his, hoping someday he will look at her.

She knows what she'd see anyway. Cruelty, hardness, steel in his eyes.

She hates herself for not fighting harder against him. She doesn't struggle, not anymore.

There are times where she wishes she could her loving words come out of his mouth, watch them spill out of him, but she knew they would only be a lie.

Sometimes it doesn't matter to her. Sometimes she would rather have the lie. A small comfort in this hard, cruel world.

And when the lights are off and he holds her in his arms like she's the only thing he'll ever need she'll shut her eyes and fool herself into thinking he loves her.

But he's always gone before she can take a breath and she lies there alone in a cold bed and she cries.

He always come back to her, but only in the night.


	4. Chapter 4

**Based on a prompt I saw on tumblr. Hope you like it!**

The door flies open, the gentle tinkling of the warning bell no match for the force it required. Sherlock doesn't glance up from his task, but a twenty pound note is slammed on the counter - right in front of his downcast and focused eyes - and a distraught voice follows it.

He glances his iridescent eyes up, at a woman digging agitatedly in her bag, neck bent and nearly inside. She's huffing as she searches fruitfully, strands of hair blowing out of her bun. Sherlock lets his gaze wander down, raising an eyebrow wryly when finding a rather loud striped sweater.

She still hasn't looked up. "Hi, sorry, I just - I'm looking for a ten, I know that's not enough, it's just - I really - this is going to sound strange but I just need - " The brunette finally glances up at him, and she cuts off her own sentence, mouth gaping open just the slightest.

Sherlock's full lips curve into a smirk, well aware of the effect he has on certain people. "How may I help you, Miss…?"

"Hooper," she blurts out. "Molly - uh, Molly Hooper." Her large brown eyes are wide as she practically stares at him (he's a dark-haired vision in his green apron) and he nearly laughs.

Sherlock looks at her expectantly when she doesn't continue. Sighing a bit, he prompts tiredly, "And what did you need today?"

Molly blushes, rather attractively against her pale skin. "I - um, I need a way to say - something like ' _fuck you_ ' in" - she shuts her eyes closed, clearly embarrassed - "flowers?"

He _does_ laugh this time, smooth and deep in the tiny shop. She blushes again, which Sherlock notes with a pleased smile. "Ex-boyfriend?" he ventures.

Molly grimaces, tugging her sweater down absentmindedly. "Ex-fiancé."

"Ah," he nods with a mock-sage air, well aware of his having no experience whatsoever of the sort. Sherlock leans over, plucking an orange flower up and twirling the stem between his musician's fingers. "You wouldn't prefer just saying it?"

"I'm not that brave," she manages, a self-conscious smile on her lips. "I'd rather just leave a passive-aggressive bouquet at his day and pray that his mistress picks it up."

A handful of geraniums, gathered together with the lilies. He artfully arranges them, picking up a bundle of foxglove to add. "I'd say I'm sorry," he begins resolutely, before aiming a steady gaze at her, "but I find I'm quite not."

Molly gapes at him again, lips parted in an attractive 'O'. "I…" she trails off uselessly.

Sherlock hands her the newly-formed bouquet, bright and obnoxious in its arrangement. "Here," he says, and she accepts it gratefully, without a word. He explains the blooms, fingering them one by one. "Foxglove for insincerity, meadowsweet for uselessness" - moves his finger to the lilies - "orange lilies for hatred, yellow carnations for disappointment, and" - he glances up at her with a wry smile, touching the last petals - "geraniums for _idiocy_."

She clutches them to her chest, saying faintly, "Thank you." Turning to go, she only gets a few steps before turning back, brow furrowed. Molly strokes a purple flower, tucked neatly in the corner of the wrapping paper.

"That one's from me," Sherlock says, not glancing up, eyes newly intent on a collection of roses. "It means" - he pauses his work, flashing her a blinding smile, raises a brow archly - "'your blush has won me over.'"


	5. Chapter 5

**I looooved writing this. The prompt is kind of weird - two serial killers together in a car who try to kill each other, but it was honestly super fun.**

 **I looked up "cool spy handguns" on Google, and that's the type that came up, so...**

* * *

 **Murder and Other Rom-Com Things**

* * *

She's got her thumb stuck out from the side of the highway, dark brown hair all swept up into a ponytail. Her hiking boots and flannel are likely soaked through, and it's clear that she's shivering even as a hazy blob through his rain-dotted windshield.

Sherlock sighs, immune to the effects of the storm inside his comfortable car with its hand-stitched leather seat (taken to the cleaners last week, and now is absolutely _spotless_ \- he knows a guy who won't ask questions).

Maybe it's because there's no other cars on this road - most likely won't be for some time until morning, or maybe it's because he knows the potential for pneumonia and possible death that he crosses his arm over the wheel, rolling his eyes as he pulls over in front of her.

She smiles gratefully - the slight widening of her eyes a clear giveaway at the surprise that anyone would stop, everyone's heard the warning stories - shivering even with her arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders. The hitchhiker waves thankfully at Sherlock when it becomes apparent he's offering her a ride, running to the passenger side of the car with her brunette head ducked against the rain, and yanking the handle quickly.

The door pulls open, and Sherlock glares his iridescent eyes pointedly at the rain and wind blowing on the dry-cleaned carpets. The girl grins apologetically, her newly visible features (pale, white skin, long brown hair, delicate and slightly upturned nose, and brown, sparkling eyes) illuminated with the artificial light streaming from his cartop.

"Molly Hooper," she says breathlessly, climbing into the passenger seat, slinging the hiker's backpack onto the floor.

"Watch the _water_ ," Sherlock snarls in reply, throwing a towel that he keeps in the backseat on her lap - which she catches neatly. Molly begins the process of drying herself, watching him curiously even as he begins to pull back onto the empty road.

The headlights are flooding the darkness when he grudgingly offers his name. "Sherlock Holmes."

Molly beams, her wait-out a resounding success. "Nice to meet you." She turns her head, studying the cut of cheekbones and jawline out of the corner of her eye, lifting an unseen impressed eyebrow at his fine features and dark cures. (He does see it though, and smirks.)

Her knee is bouncing up and down as she abandons her diversion, seeking new entertainment in the trees passing by in large blurs. _Now's the perfect moment,_ he thinks, and Sherlock transfers hands on the wheel, inching his left down the side of the leather...getting closer and closer -

"Oh!" She turns suddenly, startling him and his hand jerks back up, slamming against the armrest with a painful thud as he curses, cradling the injury and glaring at her. Molly stifles a laugh, lifting her own, uninjured hand to hide her smile. "So, _Sherlock_ , maybe we should take this time to get to get acquainted with each other?" A jaunty look comes into her brown eyes, and she taps her fingers her still-jittering knee. "I'd like to know my savior."

" _Fine_ ," Sherlock grouses, narrowly resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He has no idea _why_ he is in such a bad mood, but this cheerful woman puts him on edge. His fingers itch, so he mimes her frantic tapping against the wheel as a distraction. "What would you like to know?"

Molly lights up. "Favorite color!"

Sherlock sighs, and rubs a tired hand against his forehead, with the martyred air of someone regretting a very recent decision. (This is not going as planned. And he has a job to do.) He searches for a reply, blue-green eyes lifting upwards, never having thought of it before. "I - mm, blue," is his final answer.

She grins (her third in the last hour). "Not me," Molly decides, shaking her head resolutely. "I'm more partial to burgundy. It's just got that nice feel, you know? So _warm,_ and looks good on everyone - "

Sherlock ignores her, decision made. His hand reaches to the side of the seat (brushing against the authentic leather - did he mention that yet?) and closing around the familiar and comforting handle (he delights in the quilted pattern of the metal) of the HK USP Compact 0.04 Caliber. For a fraction of a second, Sherlock hesitates.

And hears the sound of a gun cocking in his ear.

Turning his head slowly (very, very slowly - after all, he does have a gun held against his temple), he is confronted with the picture of innocent, chatty Molly Hooper (smiling sweetly, brown eyes looking endearingly and earnestly trustworthy) holding the gun in her small, slim hands to point directly between his eyes. Yellow light plays strangely across the planes of her face as they pass each streetlight, and the wet, dark brown strands are still plastered against her temples and cheekbones (attractively - or maybe it would be, if she wasn't _holding a gun against his head_.)

She flashes a wicked smile, quick as lightning and misbehaving. Drawing in a mock-surprised gasp, she tilts the gun in her hands. "Look at that - same model. Well" - and there's that grin again, dripping with poisonous intent - "great minds think alike."

Sherlock rolls his eyes ( _his_ third in last hour), thudding his palm against the steering wheel with a groan. "You too?" he accuses. (Molly nods, obviously impressed with herself.) " _How_ did I miss that?"

The killers (murderers doesn't imply the numbers, but serial killers is too gauche - killers just has that _panache_ ) regard each other, one in good-natured amusement and the other in streaming self-reproach.

"You're my competition?" Sherlock demands. " _You?_ "

Molly shrugs, spinning the gun casually around her finger (neither of them flinch) and responds, "Don't beat yourself up - I've got the trust-me-I'm-just-an-innocent face, you know? Besides, it's only by about" - she pushes her lips together, tapping the nozzle against her chin, pretending to think (they both know the answer, much to Sherlock's dismay) - "6?"

" _Five_ ," Sherlock corrects haughtily. "And I just haven't had the time."

Molly furrows her brows, friendly air still hanging around her like a noose (murderer humor, don't mind her.) "This isn't your day job? Figured a rich boy like you didn't have to do a thing for money."

"No, it isn't," he replies, gratefully for an excuse. Ha, it's not _his_ fault she's winning.

Suddenly she's twirling the handgun from hand to hand, and he steadfastly ignores the impressive handwork. Molly continues, "Don't get too excited, Sherlock Holmes, it isn't mine either. I'm a pathologist."

Sherlock grins, a laugh rising to his lips, finally releasing his gun back to its hiding spot. "Detective."

"No fair," Molly grouses. "I don't get caught out of merit, and _you_ get to cover yourself it up." (It's true, the evidence is all too easy to mess with when you have access to the police's trust and storage - he doesn't leave evidence anyway.)

They ride in contented, easy quiet for a couple of moments, when suddenly - (truly, he doesn't know what overtook him) - the would-be killer asks the other attempted-murderer, "Would you like to go to dinner?"


End file.
